


Inside a Tornado

by mokuyoubi



Category: Bandom, Black Cards, Cobra Starship
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:37:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with joining a band with Pete Wentz is that everything in Bebe's life gets infinitely more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside a Tornado

  
The problem with joining a band with Pete Wentz is that everything in Bebe's life gets infinitely more complicated. Which isn't to say she's not grateful, because, fuck, this is so much more than she ever expected to get—but Pete is a brand of intense that she wasn't even aware existed.

Bebe's used to her normal, uncomplicated family and the group of friends with whom she instantly clicked. People as familiar and comfortable to her as Bebe herself. She's never had a person in her life make her work so hard for every piece of history or shared connection.

It's really frustrating and maybe even a little terrifying, because it makes her question all those easy relationships. Makes her wonder if they were as real as this one. Did she care for them because of who they were, or did she even _know_ who they were? Had she settled for what was convenient in the past?

She hates even thinking it, but it gets harder to shut the thoughts out, the longer she spends with Pete, and she wonders if what he has is catching. But it doesn't make her leave.

Sometimes Pete will glance at her from the corner of his eye, and it's like he knows what she's thinking. He never comments, but Bebe thinks that means maybe she's passing whatever this test is.

*

The Ashlee/Pete thing has never made a lot of since to Bebe. Granted, she wasn't a huge Fall Out Boy fan, but she knew enough of them to be as confused as everyone else when bad boy Wentz started dating a _Simpson_ girl.

It doesn't make any more sense from the inside. Mostly all she ever hears are the phone conversations—either hushed whispers, or screaming matches where Bebe only gets to hear Pete's side. She doesn't mean to, but it's hard to avoid sometimes, and maybe that's skewed her perspective, but she gets the impression that Pete's too quiet, too reserved, and too ambitious, and Ashlee maybe thought she was marrying that wild, magnetic person he was on stage.

They're rarely in the same place at the same time, but the few occasions when Ashlee comes to visit the studio make Bebe feel like her skin is drawn too tight. It's like when her parents fought, except Bebe doesn't have a room to hide in here. And even when they aren't fighting, it never feels comfortable.

The thing is, Pete seems to thrive on that conflict. Every fight, every stinging barb, every tense silence—Pete turns it into the lyrics Bebe is supposed to sing. Everyone says how lucky she is to have this opportunity, and Bebe knows that's true. But how can she explain to them how fucking scary it is, being handed these lyrics, vague and confusing and beautiful, that she's supposed to somehow translate into the right emotion.

Pete trusts Bebe with his words, except she doesn't have the right dictionary. She's working blind, and the problem is, she doesn't think she's properly equipped for the job. It's just an extension of that intensity he possess in every aspect of life. For Pete, it's like love isn't love unless it hurts.

Bebe's been in love before, and sure it hurt when it ended, but she can't imagine this constant, intentional, emotional cutting. And she isn't sure she wants to. She watches Pete, and how it tears him down, consumes him. It must be exhausting to maintain, and Bebe...she doesn't have it in her to even try.

With Black Cards, there's this built in audience following her, and they have expectations. Maybe that's even harder than living with Pete's expectations. Because sure, there are some of the fans who are bitter over how Fall Out Boy ended, who have said cruel things about Bebe, or her relationship with Pete, and it hurts. But worse are the fans who already love her, when she's done nothing to earn it, and now she just can't let them down.

Patrick had a connection with Pete that goes beyond the normal singer/lyricist relationship. Now, knowing Pete on a personal level, when she listens to Fall Out Boy she feels like she's listening to Pete directly, no filter. Where Patrick's understanding of Pete came from, Bebe doesn't know—the length of time they've been friends, how young they were when they met—but whatever it is, she doesn't have a hope of replicating it.

When Pete gives her the lyrics to _Paradox_ , it's like a cipher. Bebe's privately, selfishly relieved that, after recording the demo, Pete decides to set it aside, because singing it tears at her. Even thinking about it makes her ache for him, except she has no idea what to say.

Never before has the age difference between the two of them seemed so wide and pronounced. Bebe's dated a few guys casually. It's nothing she can compare to what Pete's gone through. She's not the advice giver in her group of friends, and even if she was, there's nothing she can think of to say.

Pete is quiet and listless and Bebe's honestly scared, because she's heard the Best Buy story, and she's not equipped to handle this. She wildly considers if she should call Patrick, or Joe or Andy, and then realises she has no idea how to contact them, and they don't even know her to begin with, except as the girl Pete brags about on the phone.

So Bebe doesn't say anything, and doesn't push. But when she finds him alone in the dark of the back of the bus, silhouette caught up in the passing lights like some tragic, romantic hero, she can't help but go sit beside him.

She sits there, thigh pressed against his. He's always so hot; she can feel it through his jeans and her pjs. It reminds her of her little brother and makes her feel stupidly protective of Pete. In the dark, she's profoundly aware of her uselessness, and she wonders what it was like with his old band.

Did they indulge him? Maybe push him to accept what he can't change, and move on? Make Ashlee into the bad guy? But they've moved on. It's obvious in every article she reads, every single they release. Pete might be going through the same motions, but he's gotten stuck somewhere along the way. Bebe wonders if it's her fault somehow, if she was supposed to be the thing that helped him move on, and has failed miserably.

Then Pete rests his head on her shoulder and worms an arm through hers. He laces their fingers together, resting palm up on Bebe's knee. “I don't know what to say,” Bebe blurts out.

Pete snorts softly, and turns his face, pressing his nose into her neck, like he's settling in. _Okay_ , she thinks, breathing deep. Bebe rests her cheek on top of his head. _I can do this_.

*

Gabe is...nothing like Bebe expected. Pete has an anecdote about him for practically every situation one could find oneself in, which in and of itself is contradictory and confusing. Then you actually meet the guy with his lazy smile and dorky secret handshake, and these eyes that are assessing everything.

The friendship between Gabe and Pete is fascinating to Bebe. On the surface they have enough in common, with their partying and bad-boy antics, and crass indifference towards what others think about them. But underneath they're both a seething mess of incongruous mood disorders that would give any psychiatrist worth their weight in gold a field day. Boys too smart for their own good, and possessing more than a modicum of privilege.

When they arrive back in NYC, they spend the first night in a shiny, neon-lit hotel suite in Brooklyn, drinking 'til none of them have any livers, which is just how Gabe rolls. Bebe worries about Pete, even through the haze of alcohol. When she finally goes looking for him it's to find him at the other end of the suite, in the relative quiet of Gabe's bedroom.

Bebe can't hear what they're saying, heads bent together, whispers lost under the thrum of the music. Pete's face is serious, intent on Gabe, who's gesturing wildly, pointing to Pete's chest and his own, hands sweeping wide like he's talking about the whole world.

If she had to guess, Bebe never would have pegged Gabe Saporta as some great philosopher. Yet Pete, who's usually the one with all the answers, looks like Gabe's just handed him the secret to life and all the universe.

She feels like an intruder, spying on something she wasn't meant to see, especially when Pete reaches out to touch Gabe back. His hand is gentle and intimate on Gabe's throat, fingers splayed up behind Gabe's ear and in his hair.

Bebe goes back to the party, drawing the slight gap in the door closed as she leaves.

*

For a long time, Bebe isn't sure what she feels. Probably something to do with her inability to really process what she saw. Everyone was drunk, and Pete was in a fragile place, and he's a touchy-feely guy, anyway. But she's not stupid, and the more she replays what she saw, she can't deny it.

It's not like she should be surprised to learn that Gabe and Pete have something going on. She wouldn't have pegged Pete as bi, but there are a lot of things she's learned about Pete since starting working with him that have taught her his public persona rarely matches up with his private one.

As time passes, they don't really try to hide it, not even from the fans. Tweets about hooking up at the VMAs, and the occasional late night hotel rendezvous. Teasing pictures and open flirting that so many people can wave off as them just being Gabe and Pete. And there are the late night phone calls, each one leaving Pete a little happier, and a little more honest.

It _bothers_ Bebe, and that makes her angry with herself. She's not the sort of person to judge people based on who they sleep with. She certainly isn't homophobic, or at least she never thought she was. She's just so disappointed in herself for the way her stomach twists whenever she sees Gabe and Pete together now, horsing around, being stupid boys, but always with this current of intent beneath it all.

Pete starts telling his Gabe story on stage every night, and it'll never fail to amaze and confuse Bebe, the way he's so fiercely private but can give away these pieces of himself to his fans like it's nothing. Bebe doesn't even know how to accept the adoration these people give her; she can't begin to comprehend Pete's connection to them. And she realises, one night, that she's just stupidly, fiercely jealous of them, and of Gabe, and of Pete himself.

Bebe's young. She knows that, objectively. But being around Pete puts it into better perspective. Every song he gives her, every time they perform together on stage, every word of wisdom he imparts to her, she's finding a little more of herself, like she's the caterpillar and he's helping weave her cocoon.

So it shouldn't come as any surprise to find this is just another opportunity for learning something about herself, her wants and desires, or what it means to be a grown up in love. But it is, lying in the not quite dark of her bunk, where it's never quiet or still or private enough. Spencer's playing around on his computer in the front lounge, and Pete's been on the phone in the back since they got off stage three hours ago.

She's horny and lonely, and a year ago she'd never have thought that she'd be fingering herself on a bus with so many people not ten feet away, but life's been kind of funny. It's like she's been circling the edge forever, muscles drawn tight and ready, but she can't quite get there. Then Pete's laughter, faint and undeniably dorky, reaches her from the back lounge and just like that, she can't get the images out of her head.

Pete on his stomach, arms trapped at his sides, Gabe's long fingers wrapped tight around Pete's wrists. Gabe's fucking him slow and hard, each thrust earning a raw, open sound from Pete's throat. Bebe has obviously never been aware of her own kinks, because that's all it takes for her to come, orgasm tearing through her, leaving her disoriented and shocky-feeling.

Of course, now that she's opened that door, it's impossible to shove closed again. Bebe has struggled to keep Pete and Spencer firmly out of her fantasy life, because it's just smart. She's not going to be stupid and waste her chance with this band because she can't keep her hormones in check.

But, fuck, she's never come so hard in her life as she does imagining Pete licking her open—and she just knows he's a pro at it—making her come again and again until she's dripping wet. And then Gabe's dick stretching her wide, just the right side of too much. She's always left feel drained and over-sensitive, and too empty, but she can't stop thinking about it, almost obsessively.

On stage she's hyper-aware of Pete's every move. It's changed her performance, she knows. She feels almost predatory, and the fans seem to love it. But she's toying with something dangerous, and Bebe knows it. It doesn't make her stop.

*

Gabe and Pete are dj-ing at Angels and Kings, an impromptu performance that's turned into a love letter back and forth to anyone paying any bit of attention. Bebe hides in the dark of the basement, letting fans buy her drinks until she doesn't care so much any more. Pete probably wouldn't approve, but, Bebe thinks rebelliously, she doesn't really give a fuck what Pete thinks.

Upstairs it's a press of bodies so thick that, strictly speaking, dancing isn't so much possible as just wriggling around with your arms in the air. No doubt word's gotten out about the surprise guest djs, because the crowd is rowdy and enthusiastically loud in their support. Bebe moves with whoever approaches her, lets possessive hands settle on her hips. She doesn't even put up a fight when some stranger starts sucking a hickey on her neck, which is when it kicks in just how drunk she is.

Bebe disentangles herself and manages to stumble back downstairs, downing two glasses of water before passing out on one of the benches. She wakes sometime later to a still and empty club, Gabe working his hands under her neck and knees. She pushes at his shoulder blearily and clears her throat. “I can walk.”

“'Kay, baby girl,” he says, and wraps an arm around her waist instead. Bebe leans into his side, warm and smelling like sweet and musky cologne.

There are still people outside, breath clouding in the cold air. A car is idling at the curb, and Gabe tips her into the back seat. She lands with a grunt, head in Pete's lap, and she starts to shift, pushing herself into a sitting position, but Pete's fingers lace in her hair, holding her in place, and she doesn't want to fight it.

“Feeling good?” Pete asks, teasing, and Bebe nods, though they both know it's a lie. Pete chuckles fondly, nails scratching lightly at her scalp. Bebe wants to stretch into it and purr.

Gabe climbs in behind her, lifting her feet into his lap. His hands close lightly around her ankle, thumbing off her heels, and it feels like heaven, like it could be the beginning of any number of her fantasies, especially when he begins to rub her feet, fingers digging into sore muscle.

Bebe curls her hands tight at her sides and fights to keep quiet for the ride back to the hotel. It's only a few blocks, but it feels like an eternity.

They ride up to their floor in silence. Gabe's managed to trick her into riding piggyback, which, you know, is a nice change from how Pete's always jumping on _her_ back, and she _is_ tired. Plus Gabe's neck is right there, looking stupidly enticing. She wonders what he'd think of her biting it. She could probably get away with it.

For as drunk as she was earlier, Bebe feels depressingly sober now, thinking about being dropped off alone in her room while the two of them disappear into Pete's room. She sighs in displeasure and Pete rubs her back soothingly.

“Let's get you to bed,” he says, and Bebe's chest feels tight, wishing he meant something different. He's fumbling around in her purse for her room key.

“Put me down,” Bebe says, and is embarrassed by how plaintive she sounds. She struggles against Gabe, who snickers and tightens his hold on her inner thighs. He's playing dirty, whether he knows it or not, so she just gives in to her urge and bites down on that exposed strip of skin between shirt and hairline.

Gabe lets out a shocked grunt and all but drops her. Pete quirks them an amused look and holds out Bebe's purse to her. “This shit's a mess,” he tells her. “I don't know how you find anything in here.”

Bebe's still half-leaning on Gabe, and aware of her fingers digging hard into his arm, but he's not commenting on it. She presses her cheek against Gabe's shoulder blade and says, “It's in the inner pocket, with my id.”

Pete stares at her, like he's seeing something different from ten seconds ago, and doesn't move to find the key. Bebe feels overexposed, barefoot with her skirt hiked up around her hips and more than anything she doesn't want to go into her hotel room alone. More than that, she doesn't want to leave the two of them alone. And Pete, he just sees everything, doesn't he?

Bebe doesn't think about any more, just leaning forward, hand on Pete's shoulder, placing a fumbling kiss on his mouth. Pete breathes out, parting his lips just enough that she can say he's kissing her back. His hand catches her elbow and steadies her. She feels grounded like she hasn't in months.

None of them says anything for a long time when she pulls back. Pete fishes out the key and Gabe half-carries Bebe inside. He dumps her on the bed with a bounce and a roughish smile. Pete says, “Bed,” like it isn't a discussion, but Gabe's toeing off his shoes and shrugging out of his sweat-grey wife beater.

Bebe can't help but stare at the way the gold of his ridiculous necklaces look against the gold of his bare skin, resting in the sharp definition of his muscles. She's so transfixed by the sight that she almost forgets about Pete until the bed dips beside her and he's crawling in, dressed in nothing but his boxers.

Pete half-naked isn't anything new, but now it's pressed against Bebe, hot and smooth. He cuddles up close to her, like any time on the bus, face in her neck. Bebe makes her tense muscles relax, hand resting light on Pete's forearm. “You never have to be alone,” Pete tells her.

Bebe isn't sure that means what she wants it to, and she's not brave enough to ask. She opens her mouth—to say what, she has no idea—and Gabe lays a finger over her lips. “Say it in the morning, if you still wanna,” he says, as he settles in on her other side.

And isn't that rich, coming from Mister-Always-Swallow-the-Worm-Saporta, whose every life choice seems to happen on the other side of a bottle. It should probably piss her off, but instead it leaves her feeling warm, head too heavy. Maybe Gabe's right.

Sometime soon Bebe's going to have to move. They're both fucking furnaces, and Bebe hates feeling trapped when she sleeps, plus she's sorta gotta pee like a race horse. But somehow she finds herself drifting off to sleep, and maybe that says something about the three of them. Or maybe she's too fucking drunk.

She can figure it out in the morning.


End file.
